'I don't know nuffin about no-one,' said the horse-holder, looking shiftily at the looming presence of Detritus.
Dibbler chewed on his cigar. It had been a bumpy journey from Ankh, even in his new coach, and he'd missed lunch.
'Tall lad, bit dopey, thin moustache,' he said. 'He was working for you, right?' The horse- holder gave in.
'He'll never make a good 'oss-'older, anyway,' he said. 'Lets his work get on top of him. I think he went to get something to eat.'
Victor sat in the dark alley, his-back pressed against the wall, and tried to think.
He remembered staying out in the sun too long, once, when he was a boy. The feeling he'd got afterwards was something like this.
There was a soft flopping noise in the packed sand by his feet.
Someone had dropped a hat in front of him. He stared at it.
Then someone started playing the harmonica. They weren't very good at it. Most of the notes were wrong, and those that were right were cracked. There was a tune in there somewhere, in the same way that there's a bit of beef in a hamburger grinder.
Victor sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of pennies. He tossed them into the hat.
'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'Very good. Now go away.'
He was aware of a strange smell. It was hard to place, but could perhaps have been a very old and slightly damp nursery rug.
He looked up.
'Woof bloody woof,' said Gaspode the Wonder Dog.
Borgle's commissary had decided to experiment with salads tonight. The nearest salad growing district was thirty slow miles away.
'What dis?' demanded a troll, holding up something limp and brown.
Fruntkin the short-order chef hazarded a guess.
'Celery?' he said. He peered closer. 'Yeah, celery.'
'It brown.'
' Wright. Wright! Ripe celery ort to be brown,' said Fruntkin, quickly. 'Shows it's ripe,' he added.
'It should be green.'
'Nah. Yore finking about the tomatoes,' said Fruntkin.
'Yeah, and what's this runny stuff?' said a man in the queue.
Fruntkin drew himself up to his full height.
'That', he said, 'is the mayonnaisey. Made it myself. Out of a book,' he added proudly.
'Yeah, I expect you did,' said the man, prodding it. 'Clearly oil, eggs and vinegar were not involved, right?'
'Specialitay de lar mayson,' said Fruntkin.
'Right, right,' said the man. 'Only it's attacking my lettuce.'
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